The Charlie Byrd Quartet “Let Go”

I’m fascinated when a photograph of a face on an album cover is larger than life-size—aside from the occasional LP, most of us won’t have photos that large at home—but we rarely think twice about it. This one, an unidentified beautiful woman, would be a giant if she was that big—you can put your lips right up to it, if you want—it’s your record! Her otherworldly blue eyes, however, will never meet yours—she’s looking off, we presume, in the direction of the live, jazz, quartet—Charlie Byrd, guitar, Mario Darpino, flute, Gene Byrd, bass, and William Reichenbach, drums. Initially, you wouldn’t know it’s live unless you’ve read the brief liner notes by Bil Keane—he describes the scene—February 27th and 28th of 1969 in the Hong Kong Bar at the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles. After a few songs, then, we do hear applause. I live in the Plaza Hotel in Milwaukee—and sometimes I wish we had something like the Hong King Bar! I have far too few jazz guitar records, but this one is perfect, really, for what it is—there are about 800 (I say that when I don’t want to count) Byrd records, I’m sure better and worse ones—but this one is mine. I do wonder how many have a “bird/Byrd” pun in the title—I’ll check—only counted six, so maybe they honed it in. No one is honing in this flautist, however—dude’s out of control. “Let Go”—named after the first song, here. I have no idea how I came across this vinyl—I’m thinking thrift store. There is Brazilian music, bossa nova—all really good—and then some very recognizable standards. I’ve got to admit supreme pleasure each time we come upon one I know: “Mood Indigo,” “Here’s That Rainy Day,” “How Long Has This Been Going On”—and to bring us right up to date, a couple of Bacharach/David numbers. For whatever reason, I’m obsessed with “This Guy’s in Love with You”—one of those songs I collect versions of, and this one is extra fine—short and sweet.

1.16.26

Barry White “Stone Gon’”

Sure, sure, I’ve only got a half-dozen Barry White records, but this one, from 1973, is my favorite. It’s also my favorite (hypothetical) make-out record. And on good days, when I eschew the TV, sports, and audiobooks, and just play music, it’s right up there with the everyday dozen LPs I leave out for easy access. I don’t get tired of it. Only five songs, but they’re all longish to long. Side 2 (two songs) ends with the hit single (if you obtain the 45, I think it’s only half the length, but why??) “Never, Never Gonna Give You Up,” the album’s most energetic track—you can dance to it, which I’d be doing right now if I wasn’t typing. It also sounds like the soundtrack for a movie, but what a movie! —it’s its own movie—the verses and bridge sound like they’re leading to the edge of tragedy, but the chorus is pure love song. I like the first side even better, the slow, quiet lead-in, Barry White’s suave, spoken intro that goes on long enough that I’m always fooled into thinking that’s what the entire record will be (wouldn’t mind), but then, of course, he sings. Then there’s a relatively short, really catchy, relatively up-tempo, R&B pop number. The side ends with a nine-minute epic that’s so lovely, it always seems to zip by. More golden voice monologue, and swelling, romantic orchestral pop, and fine melody.

The confusing album cover opens out to a 2-foot square of mostly blank cardboard, as if further artwork was pending. Well, there are 8 lines of lyrics on one of the glossy 1-foot-square quarters, looking exactly like it’s written with black sharpie in neat cursive. Which leaves an entire, blank, white glossy square. What the hell? I’m almost tempted to print this review, with sharpie, right there. No, hell! I’m gonna do it! Anyway, I’m also tempted to buy more versions of the record just to see if I got shortchanged here—or maybe this is the rarest of 20th Century Records misprinted covers, and I could sell this via Christie’s and retire. Probably not. What we do have on the printed part, as well as the cardboard inner sleeve, is three photos of the Barry White from slightly different angles—he’s at a white, grand piano, and we glimpse a lady just barely entering the frame. The background is an otherworldly mural of an eerie mountain and desert landscape under black, starry sky. There’s a gold chalice of wine sitting at a place on the piano where you really don’t want it to spill. Sometimes I’ll see a ridiculous drinking glass, best suited for show, only, or maybe Satanic ritual, in, say, an antique store, and say: “I’m gonna buy that, and only drink from that, from now on!” I’m joking of course. All talk. But I’m guessing Barry White would really use a glass like that, in the studio, or at home. It’s hard to imagine him in sweatpants. That’s why I’m just a talker… and Barry White is Barry White.

1.9.26

The Ventures “The Ventures’ Christmas Album”

I over-use the word “jaunty,” I realize, and experiencing some concern that I’ve been using it incorrectly, I looked it up in my desktop, Random-Webster Dictionary and, wha-da-ya-know, under the definition (“sprightly in manner”—something no sane person would ever say) was a picture of this record! Believe it or else. And it’d have to be, to get these 12 Christmas classics down in under 27 minutes. Well, they do manage to make some songs sound like the soundtrack for a secret agent. I must admit, however, that I no longer have patience for X-mas tunes. I enjoy the holiday, except for being bludgeoned by increasingly pointless versions—did the Sex Pistols really need to reunite for another “All I Want for Christmas (Is My Two Front Teeth)?” I’m at the point where the only Christmas song I love is the Vince Guaraldi Trio “Christmas Time is Here”—from A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we’ve been watching on TV since 1965 (same year this record came out)—at least until some slimeball, hiding behind “blame it on corporate greed,” made the decision to make people pay for it. How much money, really, do you need? Well… Anyway, the album cover shows Ventures Mosrite guitars, and drumsticks, in front of a wreath, and song titles, and the back manages to squeeze in images of 19 Ventures records. There are some oddball takes here, for sure. Sometimes they launch into a well-known pop song and then seamlessly slide into the X-mas classic. The ghostly “Scrooge” would fit better on a Halloween collection. My favorites are when they slow it down a little: “White Christmas,” a beautiful “Blue Christmas,” and a truly inspired, country version of “Silver Bells” that bends some notes so far, the cat could reach them. Those happen to be the only songs on the record (along with “Rudolph”) with colors in the titles—I don’t know if that means anything.

1.2.26

Toñin Ortiz Y Su Trio “En El Rincon De Una Barra”

The first song, “En El Rincon De Una Barra,” from which the album takes its title, translates to English, the internet tells me, as “in the corner of a bar,” which one might suppose to be literal, and somewhat off, except that on the album cover, who I assume is the singer, Toñin Ortiz, is standing right up against an inside corner of a bar. Which is kind of odd, because most bars go straight across and don’t have corners—so they really had to make an effort here! Some other corner of the internet says “the drinker’s corner”—which could be more metaphorical. The song might be quite famous, but I don’t know it, but I get a feeling from the song, no less. It does sound familiar, but maybe just from listening to this a lot. I don’t remember where I got this record, but I was certainly attracted to the full-cover photo, an old-time looking bar with a handsome, dangerous looking man wearing crisp light blue, including a scarf with a silver clasp. He’s holding a cocktail glass in one hand (likely a Scotch-based concoction, as there’s a bottle of Pinch sitting there) and has a very long cigarette in the other. On the back is a picture of the trio—there are two guitars, one rhythm and the other playing really beautiful, clear notes. I can listen to this all day—even with no Spanish—after all, I can never understand most English lyrics anyway. I had this fantasy that I only owned six records, and this was one—so I went on a deep dive and unearthed all the meaning, learned to play the guitar (best I could, anyway), and over time I would deepen my love (as well as annoyance) with it! Of course, I generally want more records, but “What If?” That leads me to think, recorded music is infinite—at least in relation to one person’s ability to take all of it in. A thought which leads me to think about all of those “greatest” lists—which are absurd—and makes me pity the journalists, sure, but also makes me a little angry.

12.26.25

Lou and Peter Berryman “(No Relation) – The Club de Wash Presents Peter & Lou Berryman”

Generally, in spite of an incredibly open mind, I’d say this isn’t my type of thing—humorous folk songs—but it’s pretty irresistible if you allow it to be—the accordion helps. It’s a lovely accordion. Lou and Peter Berryman are folk singers and songwriters—Lou (woman) plays accordion, and Peter (man) plays guitar, and they both sing and write the songs. This is their first of about 20 records, since 1980. It’s on their own label, called Cornbelt. The internet leads me to believe they’re still out there, still playing, though they’re getting up in years (relatively). Well, their website says they played a “post retirement” show in 2024—so maybe they’re retired. Their website is nice, personable, and it’s got an extensive history of their partnership. The title of this record refers to the Club de Wash—where some of this was recorded—which was in a hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, that sadly burned down. Some was recorded in a studio—it’s very well recorded. There were a couple of times I looked up, startled, thinking they might have snuck in my room! I mean, for all I know, one of them might reside in the building. Some of my favorites are “Squalor,” “Squirrelly Valley,” “The Dog’s Asleep,” “Are You Drinking with Me Jesus” (of course!) and “So Many Pies” (for the title alone—plus, they perform an uncanny record skip!) There’s a great, 8x10, b&w, photo, on the cover, of the crowd at the Club de Wash (and includes Lou and Peter.) I mean, it’s just 30-some people in a room, with beer—but it feels like a time capsule—just in that it’s very natural and crystal clear. Think about it, this is at least 45 years ago—probably everyone there is older than me. It’d be cool to see someone, in that photo, that you knew! What if you saw one of your parents? You’d want to own this record! (And maybe you do.)

12.19.25

Ahmad Jamal “Jamal at the Penthouse”

If it came down to only listening to jazz records, I’d be happy with that. I mean, no TV, no rock’n’roll, no podcasts, no sports. I’d still be able to read books (let’s not go nuts) and go to movies and the theatre. I’d be sad about some of the music I’d be missing, but jazz records are an endless journey. In this fantasy, of course, I’ve got a good local store where I can buy records for a reasonable price, and a real job—so I wouldn’t be limiting myself to $3 records. Whenever I find something like this in the cheap bins I inhabit, it feels like a bonus, even if it is scratchier than a cat. I’m not going to simply list tracks and credits—assuming the reader can simply ask the virtual assistant—or, if you’re ambitious, there are extensive back cover liner notes by Dick Martin—mini bios of both Ahmad Jamal and Joe Kennedy, and interesting song-by-song observations. We hear pianist Ahmad Jamal and his trio, along with strings—the orchestra conducted by Joe Kennedy. It’s a too brief record—short versions of only nine songs (three of which are Jamal compositions) but every second is delightful—there are little surprises (little being sometimes better—often better than big surprises). I really do wish the record was longer—like way longer—you put it on in the morning and take it off before bed. The “Penthouse” in the title is the “Nola Penthouse Studios” in New York—where it was recorded, February 1959—on the 17th floor of the old Steinway Building. Now, there, is one of those moronic, super-tall-thin apartment buildings that give me the willies. Personally, the last earthquake I experienced was in NYC—even mild ones aren’t funny. But these new buildings are “earthquake-proof”—ha, someone send a memo to Irwin Allen! I’m assuming the cover photo is the old Steinway—it’d be weird if it wasn’t—and I really like it, taken at dusk—it gives me the feeling both of the big city, and also, loneliness, melancholy. It doesn’t exactly match the music, which is, for the most part, exuberant—but I’ll take it—they really knew how to throw together an album cover back then.

12.12.25

Jackie Gleason “Jackie Gleason presents the Gentle Touch”

I love the Jackie Gleason records—though my initial reaction to this 1961 offering is that it possibly sets the gold standard for blandness. I don’t mean that in a bad way, and, in fact, the opposite, because that’s what I want! It’s not “easy listening,” which I don’t believe in, but it is mood music, whatever that means—and what’s the mood, exactly, here? It’s a little too up-tempo for romance—unless say, the romance involves… not going there. No, there’s something going on here, and I don’t know what it is… but that’s just because I’m too unsophisticated to get to the bottom of it. I’ll try the brief, uncredited liner notes, which immediately point out that the woodwinds arrangements here are somewhat of a departure from the usual Gleason strings—also more up-tempo than we’re used to—okay, so I can see that. It also mentions a “pair of trumpeters” who are improvising against a background of reeds, rhythm section, and “four discretely-employed orchestral trumpets.” If that doesn’t get you interested… of course you are! Only 12 tracks here, standards, about half of which I’m familiar with. Relatively short by Gleason standards—indeed, there’s enough room between the final grooves and the label to take the whole family ice-skating. Two moon songs—apropos this week’s “Cold” (Full) Moon! The album cover is the final straw—at first seeming to be merely a murky barely focused action shot of an elegant woman feigning ecstasy—but if you look closer, you see another human(?) head from the top—so only a protruding nose is discernible—against the woman’s exposed neck. Lover? Man, woman, or vampire? I’m going with the latter, of course—and now it all makes sense, when taken as a whole—this LP is one of the oddest expressions (that I know of) of popular bloodsucking lore.

12.5.25

Bob Lind “Photographs of Feeling”

I chanced on another Bob Lind record awhile aback (“Don’t Be Concerned”) which I liked, so when I had the chance to pick this one up (also from 1966), I was hoping for more of the same sound—which for most part it has—hard to explain exactly the appeal to me, but I like it. I guess it’s considered “folk”—and I suppose it is, to some extent—but it strikes me more as a kind of baroque pop. Maybe baroque is too strong—but it’s somewhat unique in style—starting with the songwriting—all songs by Bob Lind—and then the production (Jack Nitzsche), which has a good amount of mysterious space—and the arrangements (Nitzsche), some of it very lush, with strings and unidentifiable instruments. The romantic lyrics work beautifully with this sound. As it happens, as I write this, it’s Bob Lind’s 83rd birthday—I didn’t try for that—but the random arrow often chances on such alignment. “Remember the Rain,” that’s a good one. The album cover nicely fakes 2 X 3-inch photos in photograph album style, and… no one’s winning the Ansel Adams Achievement Award here, though there is an impressive collection of murk. I don’t know if I’ve ever read liner notes quite this ebullient—well, it took two of them, Charles Greene and Brian Stone—maybe one typed while the other shoveled—but, anyway, who’s to say it’s not all true, and Lind is a god—ten songs here—decide for yourself. Some of this record I do love, but not all of it. I could skip the songs that happen to refer to U.S. cities and “home”—just my preference—but I love the rest of them, including the one that refers to a state (“West Virginia Summer Child”), a specific woman (“Elinor”) and the Morris Minor automobile (“Go Ask Your Man”) —and a few others!

11.28.25

Isaac Hayes “Hot Buttered Soul”

Maybe my favorite all-time album cover (or in the top-ten), over half the 144 square inches of image space taken up by the top of Isaac Hayes’s perfectly bald head. There are probably more than a few people, since 1969, whose insanity was manifested by meticulously counting the thus exhibited bald head pores. They pored over the pores. (Which isn’t to say his head isn’t as smooth as the music on this record.) It’s almost abstract—you can see part of one ear, his sunglasses from the top, and then, falling out of focus, shoulders and heavy gold chains. It’s really quite beautiful. And the record is even better. If I was going to pick an ultimate work of art that I would hold up as something I would aspire to—that is, in some magical world where I was capable of anything (books, bridges, full-length movies, 12-inch vinyl)—it might be this album. Does that mean it’s my favorite LP? —in a way, yes—but I can’t pick a favorite (in spite of my “lists”). Since the day I compiled some cassette tapes from a giant Stax records collection about 25 years ago, I’ve listened to this version of the Bacharach/David classic “Walk On By” way too many times to even hear it any more, yet on this day, it again sounds like the most amazing thing ever set to tape, with those strings, backup singers, some insane guitar, The Bar-Kays rhythm section, and the whole Isaac Hayes interpretation. Two long songs on this side, that, and a funk pop number “Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic” (take that, spellcheck) which would itself be a standout on any other 1969 (or any year) record (especially the middle, instrumental jam part, which I would love to just have a 90-minute version of—or even longer).

Only two songs on Side Two, as well, first, a really nice soul ballad, “One Woman,” that I guess Al Green recorded first (but not by much)—a pretty sweet song—but that chorus: “One woman is making my home/while the other woman is making me do wrong”—infuses the whole project with a healthy amount of realism and sadness. An excellent song, and this is a fine version. And finally, an amazing 19-minute journey called “By the Time I Get To Phoenix”—a great song, but far from my favorite Jimmy Webb composition (just because there are so many that are so good), but it’s a song that, over the years, I’ve compiled a collection of cover versions (there are songs I love to do this with) —and there are some good ones. (Also, a lot, I need a bigger box!) The first I’d heard, of course, was Glen Campbell’s, which I’d been too barraged with as a youth to really appreciate. So, it wasn’t until decades later, hearing other inspired versions of it, that I recognized it as a great song. The Isaac Hayes version here is my favorite. It starts out with an intro that’s longer than most Sunday sermons—our man doing a mini Webb bio and non-history of its composition, while setting up his take, to “bring it on down to Soulsville”—and the only sound, during all this, besides the golden voice, is steady tapping on a cymbal, and what sounds like one key pressed on the Hammond organ—maybe the longest continuous single note in recording history—which you almost don’t even notice—but then you notice the wavering “tremolo” and realize your literally hearing, in action, a Leslie speaker, spinnin’ away. Finally, we launch into the lyrics, and another fine arrangement, really nice piano, too, and a deep vocal interpretation. And if that all isn’t enough—he extends the song with a lengthy outro that includes his improvisational riffing on the whole sad story, and then a minimal but awesome horn section for even more drama, and then the slow-machinegun drums adding to the emotional overload, and finally, some organ pyrotechnics—but tastefully—until he brings it down—and it gets quiet again—and then finally finishes out, highlighted by even more nutso organ, and again! quiet—and (for real, this time) finishes with an organ chord that sounds exactly like church.

11.21.25

Glen Campbell “Burning Bridges”

First two songs are great—can it continue? Kind of melancholy. I love Glen Campbell, but I really love his recordings of those Jimmy Webb hits—so, seeing, here, the “Webb-less” song selection gets me a little disappointed in advance—but ol’ Glen can still win me over—and he does, along with this fine selection of beautiful and mellow old-fashioned tear-jerkers with strings and chorus. And that could be that—but I’ll elaborate a little, seein’ how I get paid by the word. Indeed, this 1967 Campbell came up on the random docket, which reminded me I didn’t have a copy of his Wichita Lineman album—and that song is not only my favorite GC, but one of my favorite songs anywhere! Not hard to find, so I bought a used copy—and guess what—the rest of the record is kind of a bummer. This being a much more satisfying C&W record—a real “beer diluter,” as they say. The shallow-focus cover photo is mysterious—Glen emerging from behind an enormous tree! (That takes up two-thirds of the space, and over which is the title and song selection, etc.) Conspiracy theorists may be able to identify (imagined or not) messages in the tree’s out-of-focus bark. Also notable, should you isolate the foremost and top region of Glen Campbell’s considerable hair—well… don’t. The liner notes are uncredited but interesting and well-informed. Songs are by country legends, and it’s an old-time Nashville sound, in arrangements, and production (Al De Lory). Just one song by Glen Campbell, titled “Less of Me”—though I noted that there’s enough space, next to the label on Side Two, for “More of Me”—but no dice. My favorites are “You’ve Still Got a Place in My Heart,” “Too Late to Worry, Too Blue To Cry,” “Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall,” and the title track. I’ve never been able to listen to Buck Owens’ classic “Together Again” since some late-night movie host jokers excessively used an illegal soundbite of it, but the version here redeems it… for now.

11.14.25

Frank Sinatra “Sinatra’s Sinatra”

This 1963 album could be subtitled “The Most Sinatra Sinatra Record” (though maybe there already is one, with that exact title, among his 8000 releases). He had recorded most of these songs previously, but of course he recorded some songs many times. Maybe not my all-time favorite versions, here—but I haven’t gone over the edge yet, to the point that I’m making head-to-head comparisons. It’s the Nelson Riddle Orchestra—a very bright, jazzy, modern-sounding sound. I mean modern for 1963—it doesn’t sound like 1933—but I don’t mean rock’n’roll or anything. And besides that, it’s still got a nostalgic feel. I’ll take “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” “In the Wee Small Hours,” “Nancy,” “Young at Heart,” Oh, What It Seemed to Be,” and “Put Your Dreams Away”— over any of today’s contemporary pop—but maybe that’s not fair. I’d take those songs over most 1963 pop, as well. I just don’t have my finger on the pulse o’ today—send me your Splotify playlists! (No, don’t do that.) The album cover all-caps all twelve of the songs in font size usually reserved for artist’s ego. Of course, “Sinatra” is up in lights, and his grinning face is so large and unflattering to be almost frightening, at least in person—one eye half covered by his featureless hat—the other blue iris looking almost 3-D—the overall effect is rather lurid. You’ve kinda got to wonder if he failed to okay the proofs, on this one. Busy guy. The back is mostly taken up with some fine liner notes by Benny Green (The Observer, London)—equal parts heady, intellectual musings and breezy, idiosyncratic whimsy—I’d pay that guy to write my liner notes all day long.

11.7.25

The Poppy Family – featuring Susan Jacks “Which Way You Goin’ Billy?”

More advice for young record reviewers—I mean besides, “Get a turntable with automatic return” (especially if you like to take a drink). Don’t judge an album by the first song—it’s an album. Not that the first song, here, is bad—it’s okay, just uninspiring to me. But then, starting with the second song, we get on a pleasingly farraginous, psychedelic, pop highway, with equal amount Eastern (Sitar) and Western (as in, Country &)—if you didn’t know better, you’d say this band could only be from Canada (which is as much of a fact as anything—Vancouver). It then motors along very nicely, until the first side finally (it feels epic, though all the songs are under 3 minutes!) concludes—with a surreal number called: “There’s No Blood in Bone”—I mean surreal musically (a very good thing)—I have no idea what it’s about, but it’s not about cooking—(though, the song cooks—I hope I made that clear). Then, more of the same—though, the song, “Which Way You Goin’ Billy?” is a standout—and apparently a hit—I’m not sure if I remember it—this was 1969, and I was in love, so maybe. Also, do judge a record by its cover—but prepare to die. Well, not die, but be wrong—this looks more like an, of-the-era, Alberto VO5 ad—but no, it’s art. “Featuring Susan Jacks”—SJ, wearing the reddest pantsuit I’ve ever seen—and she might also be the most blond person in the history of hair. Talking about hair, the rest of the “family” are three fellas standing behind her, each with his own hair journey—well, one is wearing a black turban. And one, you might “beware of” on full moons—one of which is upon us as I write, plus, it’s Halloween! Kids are at the door! I’m “going” as Zacherle—as soon as I finish this. Oh, and finally, the other one, I believe, is Terry Jacks—who wrote all of these songs—and his genius is protected under that hair helmet. Good songs. The relative epic, “Of Cities and Escapes,” ushers us out with a full portion.

10.31.25

Speedy Keen “Y’Know Wot I Mean?”

Nothing more mysterious than the name “Speedy Keen” sold me on this $3 find. (Recalling the enduring Steely Speen vs. Steeleye Speen debate. Due to the cursive, I thought it said: “Ken Speen” at first!) That, and the full-cover, black and white photo of a leatherjacketed, longhaired, dude who looks right out of 1975—and for good reason. Otherwise, there isn’t much in the way of clues—Island Studios Hammersmith, some familiar musicians (it’s always promising when there are names like “Peaches” and “Rabbit”). Also, “John Keen” wrote most of the songs, played guitars, drums, and keyboards (including my fav from my younger days, Mellotron) as well as singing—no wonder they call him Speedy! The guy at the record store nonjudgmentally said, “Speedy Keen”—perhaps even with approval—but I admitted I knew nothing of him—so then he said, “He was with Thunderclap Newman!”—which brought more blankness, I admit. Some of the songs (in particular, “Nightmare”) remind me a little of Mott the Hoople from around the same time—mixture of blues influenced hard rock, country, and a bit of weirdness—you wouldn’t confuse Keen with Ian Hunter, but their approach is perhaps similar. That it’s a Roy Orbison cover makes “Almost Eighteen” a little more palatable—in that a guy who wrote “In Dreams” has already surpassed the creepola event horizon—it’s a teeny-bopper song, but not really acceptable if sung by anyone older than say 19—or who sports a ’stache. There’s even a reggae song, which could be—seeing it’s on Island Records, and this number was produced by Chris Blackwell—kind of an artistic “taxation”—indicated by that little “dagger” next to the title. Pretty good song, though! Side Two starts off with a trio of love ballads (“I Promise You”/”Someone to Love”/”My Love”)—my favorite stretch of the record—I mean, really nice songs if you’re in such a mood—which I wasn’t until I heard these songs. I’m a sap. I guess Side Two is kind of the gentle side of Speedy Keen, where Side One is the farraginous approach—corny, jaunty, silly, heavy-duty, reggae, you name it. Not a bad strategy for an album (think Stones “Tattoo You”)—to really use that two-side format in real way—an art that was lost in the CD era. It ends with a gentle environmental political number that recalls times before everyone going 100 mph to the next dead end, shouting to be heard above the roar of idiocy.

10.17.25

Crow “Crow by Crow”

What’s the title mean? That the title, as well as the band, is called Crow? Or does it refer to a number of crows, in succession, one after another? An orderly murder of crows, if you will. And if so, coming or going? Dying, or taking over? I love crows, and I really want one as a pet. But I looked up the feasibility of this—not likely—mostly because we (humans) are way too moronic for crows to want to hang out with us, like dogs. (Not that dogs are dumb, not at all, but you know what I’m saying.) To prove a point, my inquiry must have gotten back to the bird community, and not 24 hours later, a bird shit on me! So… this is the second album by the band everyone wishes they could be (in name)—but they’re still together! Holding out. Certainly, The Black Crowes would have just been Crow, had the name not been taken—I mean, what other kinds of crows are there? White chocolate crows? Fantastic album cover—illustration by Cal Schenkel—of a giant crow (even if it does have a yellow beak and hair instead of feathers) among the five band members—in lovely, vintage, 1960s, grade school literature textbook style. See if you can (you can!) match the rendered guys up to their black and white, caught-in-a-rage, photos on back. There, you have Crow in a nutshell. Not really.

This is a great record if you’re in the mood for some c.1970 blues-influenced heavy-duty rock, where “over the top” is pretty much the baseline—not to mention bassline—also guitar, drums, organ, voice—each with homicidal intensity (yet, there’s separation!)—which isn’t to say it can’t get quiet and slow—“Smokey Joe” is particularly nice. And, well, the singer is pretty much always at “11”—speaking of which, the infamous song on Side Two, “Cottage Cheese,” is as much a template for the band and movie, Spinal Tap, as anything. And what’s a song by that name about? Well, a delicacy made from small morsels of curdled skim milk suspended in cream, AKA smearcase. Mostly originals (though none quite as original as the C. Cheese), but a couple of fine covers really stand out. I immediately remembered “Slow Down” via a version by The Jam, from one of their first records, late Seventies, I guess. But then it occurred to me—obviously this was earlier—did anyone else cover it? The sobering internet says there’s only about 90 versions of the song out there (including one by a little squad called the Beatles). It was originally written and recorded by Larry Williams, in the Fifties. My favorite on the record is a bizarre version of The Everly Brothers’ “Gone, Gone, Gone”—a song I didn’t know, so I checked it out—the Crow turns that two-minute cry-baby jaunt into an epic eight minute psychedelic blues “you done me wrong” lament—that epically transcends the original sentiment—because now, instead of merely passing thru Phoenix, the jilted lover exits this mortal coil.

10.10.25

Warner Special Products “Superstars of the 70’s”

This 1973 compilation boxset kind of achieved mythic proportions in my life even though it’s a fairly corny and unfocused collection of popular, canonized, and feared music of the era that they incessantly advertised on TV. I honestly can’t remember if I bought it mail-order, or you could get it in stores—nor how much it cost. In spite of seeing them one million times, I was captivated by the TV commercials with the scrolling lineup of brief song excerpts—and one short snippet in particular captured my imagination—that was the Rolling Stones “Tumbling Dice.” At that point in my record buying, I’d been too frightened to buy a Stones record—I remember the mortal fear I experienced in the Ontario store just seeing the cover of “Sticky Fingers.” It occurs to me now that my listening was somewhat limited at the age of 13, but then, I lived in Sandusky, Ohio, had no older siblings to latch onto, and my parents were not into rock’n’roll—more popular jazz than anything. A record was a big investment for little kids who didn’t have jobs, so it was an odd one here and an odd one there—based on what? I guess what you heard on the radio and saw on TV. So when I finally got this huge, eight-side, almost 50 song collection, it was one of the first exposures to a lot of stuff I’d not heard whatsoever. It came with a program that folded out into eight columns—all the colors of the rainbow—like the box cover—which listed not only the songs, artists, and song titles, but also the albums the songs came from and even the rest of the songs on that album. (Just the song titles from Exile on Main Street once again frightened me—but also intrigued me.)

It’s not a collection that makes a lot of sense, really, as far as an overview, or sequencing—but I didn’t know that at the time. Some of the bands and songs I knew, of course. It’s starts out with Alice Cooper “Schools Out,” an album I owned (on which nearly every other song is better than the title song). Some were incessantly on the AM radio, like “Anticipation” and “Where is the Love.” A few songs here I couldn’t get into at all, but I’d still play it through one side after another, on the turntable of my Show’N Tell (I was still pre-stereo, but it wasn’t long before I got a GE “Wildcat”). After a while, of course, there were certain preferred sides, and then songs I wanted to hear over and over—my favorite still being “Tumbling Dice” (and still to this day). My first time ever (I’d never heard anything like that!) hearing Jimi Hendrix—and his two songs (“Purple Haze” and “Foxey Lady”) held a particular fascination. As did The Kinks “Lola,” Grateful Dead “Truckin’,” Jefferson Airplane “White Rabbit,” and Black Sabbath “Paranoid.” My very favorite, though, was Faces “Stay with Me”—I couldn’t get over that one for years and years (yet strangely never bought a Faces album). Some, I just didn’t get, until way, way later. Upon relistening to the whole thing, the song that surprised me (because I didn’t remember it was on here) is The Bee Gees “To Love Somebody” (one of the best pop/love songs ever written) but it made no impression at all, back then—maybe because it was sandwiched in-between Hendrix and The Kinks.

10.3.25

The George Shearing Quintet “Classic Shearing”

Sure it’s a 1966 compilation record, but it’s a good one, at least for my money, and I’d confidently tell a “Shearing-less” friend that if you were going to have only one Shearing LP in your collection (heaven forbid) that you could do worse than this one! Are they recordings from records I have? I’m not going to do the research—they all sound familiar, but maybe that’s just me—nothing in the world—that’s round and has grooves—sounds, to me, more familiar than The George Shearing Quintet. Apparently, this LP is part of a series put out by Verve/VSP—there are “thumbnail” (1 ½ square/big thumb!) pictures, on the back cover, of 18 collections of jazz legends—this being No. 9—each with similar cover art—some kind of stylized, abstract, illustration. The art on this one (by Jon Henry) looks like a cut paper collage arranged on a black diamond shape; if one was going to recognize objects in the abstract forms, I’d list various fruits and vegetables and a big fish. And because the title font is a dead-ringer for “Cookbook Font,” you might get confused and look inside for a bouillabaisse recipe. Somewhat appropriate, because this record cooks! Including: “Good to the Last Bop,” “Brain Wave,” and “Rap Your Troubles in Drums.” There are recordings from 1949 to 1964, but it doesn’t sound like a retrospective, but rather a hot band from down the street, tonight (if you’re lucky), and the variety of personnel amazingly sounds like a single vision, if not a single combo (with maybe the exception the one time ever I’ve heard accordion on a Shearing record). Other rarities, accordion to the liner notes—a song called “For Evans Sake”—released here for the first time. Sure, the record is long on puns (and short on minutes, sadly)—but there are two types of people, those who find this music cornball, and those who find it sublime—guess where I stand.

9.26.25

Andrew Klimek “AFTERBATHINGINTURPENTINE”

The title (in all caps) is on this 1979, 7-inch’s (lemon yellow, Mustard records) label, which is what will survive (nuclear annihilation, climate disaster) while the glossy, paper cover, won’t. It’s a three-song “single” (which makes more sense than the notorious 3-side “double” album—give me an afternoon, and I’ll give you something for that fourth side! And so would Andrew Klimek)! I wish I had more AK vinyl—this is it—because his (with Ugly Beauty) masterpiece “suite,” “Halfway Thru the Summer” is one of my favorite recordings, period, and I can’t even remember where it came from (I believe a CLE magazine comp)—I have it on home cassette (I hope). “Anna Told” has almost-discernable lyrics, maybe a narrative, and angular guitar, far from unpleasing, in-and-out, concise pop. “Drapery Hooks (of My Love)” starts out similarly, but then devolves into noise and backwards tracks and I-don’t-know-what. It occurs to me that it doesn’t actually say 45 RPM anywhere, so, in the spirit of experimentation, I tried playing the whole thing at 33 RPM—but that’s too sludgy, especially the vocals. Well, the second side, “Felt Hammer,” starts out sounding like Joy Division, but only until the vocals. I also tried playing “Drapery Hooks” backwards, though it’s hard to regulate the speed, so I’m not sure about this, but I’ll go out on a limb and proclaim that that song is the first in recorded history to be exactly the same whether played forward or backward!

“Felt Hammer” feels like a classic to me—maybe I’ve just heard it a lot—quite possibly on Jeff Curtis’s long running “What You Need” radio show on WRUW. Or, where else would I have heard it? Certainly not at the dentist, even my old dentist who loved the laughing gas and the Beatles. There’s a reference to the “Terminal Tower,” so you know you’re in Cleveland, and excellent, heavily tremolo’d guitar. If I really worked at it, I could get all the lyrics, but I’m tired of re-needling these little discs—so I’m going to concentrate on the mysterious and still-existing sleeve/cover. Mine says, “To Randy” and there’s a circled “AK” (in nearly worn-out permanent marker) which I’m assuming is only on my copy—I don’t know what that does to the re-sale market value. There’s a photo of (it’d-be-weird-if-it-wasn’t) Andrew Klimek playing guitar—that’s been re-photocopied so many times as to make it extremely high-contrast and almost faded away. The odd thing is, he looks more like a young William Shatner than anyone. On back there’s a small, dark, b&w reproduction of an abstract painting that almost pathologically challenges us to ponder its preferred-format splendor. Musician credits include Klimek, James Ellis, Christopher Weldon, and Michael Weldon. In small print are some extensive, uncredited, very serious, highly technical liner notes, easily several Cochranes above my head, but highly poetic all the same, and irresistible. I’ll excerpt, to my peril— “The song has an asymmetrical structure, consisting of an introduction, a strophe, an antistrophe, a second strophe, an instrumental break, a second antistrophe, and a coda.” And: “A glass harmonica is both rubbed for drone effects and its unique timbre and played percussively against the steady metrical drum figure. An electric saw run through a Mutron III envelope-follower is used as controlled noise.” —as I’ll get ads for vintage Mutron III’s every time I open anything on the internet, from now to eternity.

9.19.25

John Kruth “John Kruth’s Midnight Snack”

Apparently someone broke into my apartment in 1987 (the year this vinyl hit the streets, on a label I’ve never seen) (Hopewell) and deposited this one into my collection for future “review” purposes—thanks, guys! —but how did you do it, since I’ve only lived here since 2023? No, 2013, but still… At any rate, someone lived here in 1987—a fact that I prefer not to dwell on. Initially, I handled it gingerly, thinking it must be fairly contemporary—but no! The cover is amazing—looks like the scrapbook from Hell—credited to Eric von Schmidt. There is a nice b&w photo on back, and it’d be weird indeed if that wasn’t Kruth—a handsome young man wearing what looks like (it’s cropped) a coonskin cap (or maybe that’s his hair). It starts out dubiously with a lot of harmonica, and… with a capital J. The first song, “Class Clown,” is a Jaunty rocker about mild rebellion. After that, things get weird. (100% a good thing.) Second song has a really nice groove to it, even if the chorus is suspect: “Get back, get back, I’m not your midnight snack”—what human would ever say that? Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s about bedbugs. I’ll listen more closely. Actually, I’m not going to listen more closely, in case it is. Anyway, this has led me to believe anything might come along on this record, and it does. Art rock, experimental jazz, experimental folk, Violent Femmes-sounding stuff (some of them played on this record, as well as other Milwaukee old-timers) —some killer playing on this record! Good lyrics, throughout, too, though some of the songs are a bit “humorous” for me—not to say comedy or anything—nothing that fans of Frank Zappa would mind, unless you think Zappa’s the only one allowed to be whimsical—in which case, you should expand your musical horizons. Actually, maybe I should (expand…) —put those comedy, jauntiness, harmonica, fiddle, mandolin, etc. biases aside… and lighten up! The last song is called “The Donut Shop”—which of course won me over, even though it sounds like it’s a song about me! (nothing in the fridge but mayo, Cleveland and SF references)—mysterious! My favorite is “House by the Shore”—I’m thinking I must have heard it somewhere before—or maybe it just has the inevitableness of meta-horror, sounds 2025, or later! At this point, as much as I wish I was in the internet-less North Woods, I’ve got to look up John Kruth before I say something too obvious, OK? A mandolin virtuoso, wildman, multi-instrumentalist, former Milwaukee resident, later NYC resident. He’s got tons of records—but this is his first—so if I want to go into the Kruth rabbithole, I’ve started in the logical place! He’s also written tons of books, many of them about music. He’s a prolific guy, possibly still going strong—five years older than me—thus, still young. He often wears a hat, in photos, as least, so it’s likely that what I can see of the fur, crowning his head, on the large, cropped, photo, is a hat.

9.12.25

Carole King “Tapestry”

It’s funny that just after vowing my new, concise, “one paragraph” approach, the random arrow points to this one—a record you could write books about, and I’m sure people have—there must be one of those 33 1/3 books about this 1971 record, right? —that may be the one I’ll read next, because I do love this album. A record with this many great songs—I mean, not only the hits (in itself, kind of crazy) but individual songs that are different enough from each other to be whole worlds—but fit together, as well. What do I love about this album? For one thing—the way that first song, “I Feel the Earth Move,” sounds on an actual turntable, vinyl record—entirely different than the digital version—same with the big hit, “It’s Too Late”—I don’t know why this record exhibits such a stark contrast between analog and digital, but it does. Maybe it’s just this day—the air, the humidity—it sounds better than any other record. This one holds a special place in my heart as well—a secret maybe only one person will be in on with me—and I’m not going to elaborate, sorry. See my “memoirs” for that—I mean, someday, from a long time ago, and so far away, in the future. And a big maybe, no guarantees, you know that. The album cover, of course, is one of the best ever in our brief, lucky-to-live-during-it, 12-inch vinyl record era covers. There’s probably another book just on the album cover. A chapter for the cat. The back cover is wall-to-wall words, lyrics—though you can understand them, too—and credits—some fine musicians, and songwriters—you know who one of them is? Carole King. It opens up to reveal a concept I have no concept of—someday someone will explain it to me (something to look forward to). Every song is great, did I say that? And I even love them all (or, say, ten of them, let’s be real). What was going on that day at “Ode Records” when someone in charge of eventual-dollars okayed such an unlikely album cover? There is no evidence whatsoever of a plan—and you have to believe that a single magic photographic frame was exposed—and that was that. Carole King and the cat have the exact same expression—which is unreadable (as a cat).

9.5.25

Jackie Gleason “presents Music to Make You Misty”

Someday, you won’t be able to find these Jackie Gleason mood music records in thrift stores, and people won’t believe that you once could. But they must have pressed a zillion of them. This one is in fine condition, too, vinyl and cover. It’s apparently a re-release of an earlier version—indicated via a note on back—it’s like they doubled the capacity! It’s true, an earlier version I see (internet)—same cover photos, though different title font (better), from 1953, has four songs per side. This one from 1959 (my best guess) has eight songs per side. A lot of versions over the years—the prospective makeout king could age from cute to pathetic in that time—but at least he wouldn’t have to turn the record over so frequently! Not that a hot date is the only use for this vinyl—in fact, this one is on the more melancholy side. Maybe its appeal is to any gender, while going through that wistful (once dreaded but now nostalgic) period after a breakup. No cocktails are shown on the cover, but I’d recommend a well-made Manhattan. The cover photo is a classic, however, of a young redheaded woman, alone (save her discarded fur) on an itchy-looking green couch in a shoulderless something, her left hand on the silent receiver of a black cradle phone—her right hand has just brushed away tears and hair, as she looks up to… if not God, or Jackie Gleason, could be OTB race results. Her nail polish and lipstick match uncannily. Another tear is leaking from her right eye. She’s wearing the tiniest wristwatch I’ve ever seen. We can see one earring, a pearl, from which hangs a hoop, made up of, if you look closely, many tiny pearls. The background is out of focus, but it’s a vivid orange, and judging by the brass towers that I’m guessing support a spark-guard, I’d wager the tangerine hue is from a roaring fire.

As we are led to believe, Jackie Gleason has selected these ballads especially for the mood at hand—and conducted the orchestra with a languorous and slightly tipsy hand. I mean tipsy in only the best of ways. Arrangements by Sid Feller and Richard Jones. The first thing we hear is a melancholy trumpet, purported to be Bobby Hackett. Also, Toots Mondello on alto sax. The liner notes indicate that this is only the third issued of these Gleason moodfests, after Music for Lovers Only and Lover’s Rhapsody. (I own a half-dozen Gleason’s, but not those two.) I don’t know offhand how many of these similar offerings were eventually published—I could look it up, but so could you—that’s the kind of thing the WWW excels at. The songs presented here are all incredibly matching in their mellow melancholy, tone and tempo, so no unwelcome surprises—what you want under these wistful conditions. All standards, of course, though I don’t know a high percentage of the sixteen offerings—in a “name that tune” capacity, that is. I definitely hum a few in my more far-off dreams. They’re spread around among the great composers, but I’m not going to list them here—again consult your rolodex.

8.29.25